


The Direwolf and the Flower

by masqueradeofwords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queen Margaery, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masqueradeofwords/pseuds/masqueradeofwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loras is sent to the Wall by the Faith, he finds a friend in (living!) Lord Commander Jon Snow. But the attitudes of their fellow watchmen along with the impending walker catastrophe threatens their relationship constantly. Will their love keep wolf and flower together? Jon/Loras</p><p>Updated: On hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snipping Stems

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment with constructive criticism, suggestions, and feedback, and enjoy!
> 
> \- Masquerade

The crisp, chilly air bit at his exposed skin as the horse cantered forward. He shivered, wrapping the furs more tightly around himself and cursing himself for underestimating the freezing temperatures of the North. How, he thought, could he have been so stupid? The thought referred not to the thin layers that he had brought, of course, but rather the choices that had led him to such a desolate place. Yet at the same time, he had no regrets. He feared for the future, but the past was what kept his heart from turning to ice.

 

Loras Tyrell, formerly known as the Knight of Flowers, rode towards the Wall. The wind nipped through his furs, his golden curls blew in the wind, and his memories kept him alive. He had tried everything to keep the blackness in the corner of his mind from swallowing him, of course. Loras reminded himself that the swaying of fir boughs was a vast improvement to a life of gruel, cotton robes, and a single barred window that he had cherished as his last connection to the outside world. True, he might never again see a dragon lily or a sword flower, but at least he was alive. Loras shook his head physically, as if trying to shake off the years that he had wasted away under the seven-pointed star, the years that he had become an empty shell. No, he told himself. He would not return, he would not fall into the darkness again.

 

Loras stopped for a moment as he crested a snow-dusted hill, peering through the perpetual, drifting flakes that were constantly falling this far north. As he scanned the forested landscape,the outlines of a single parapet emerged. “Castle Black.” 

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

“Lord Commander! The Knight of Flowers is here.” Dupert rushed into his chambers.

 

Jon paused for a moment, regarding the piece of paper in his hands. *The Faith has decided, in deference to Queen Margaery, to send this criminal north to the Wall*. He tapped the wax seal as he read through the letter once more. *You are authorized to ensure that such a sinner is not allowed to prey upon those whose hearts and minds are true to the Seven*. The Lord Commander sighed, understanding for the first time how corrupt the Faith had become. The Wall was a death sentence for a well-known...unconventional lover. It was their way of killing him without an execution. Loras would never wake up one day, his throat slit by some bigot, and the Faith could wash their hands of a potential problem while still obeying the Queen's orders. Masterful, and cruel.

 

“Please meet him at the gate and have him sent directly to my chambers. Thank you, Dupert.” Jon looked up at the gangly youth.

 

“Lord Commander.” The boy touched his forehead and left quickly. Jon smiled as the boy rattled down the wooden staircase of the tower, as he knew that Dupert would be tripping his way along the descent. His heart panged, however, as he was reminded of another boy. Ollie had been the same way. So bright, so eager to please, so earnest and serious. And in the end, he had turned on Jon like all the rest of them. Jon flinched, trying to block the memory. He held it back, keeping it away, trying to avoid the pain that came with it. But as the floodwater of memories swelled behind it, the barrier broke. 

 

Thorne had stepped up to him in the moment that he stared dumbfounded at the sign, and he had driven his knife into Jon’s side. He had fallen, bleeding, the memory even blurred with the excruciating pain. And the next man had stepped forward, the words “For the Watch” escaping from his lips. A white blur had crashed into the man, knocking him over, and ripped his throat out. Jon sat down heavily as his unseeing eyes watched Ghost rip and tear and bite, and his white fur blossom with blood as sharp blades pierced the fur that Jon had tenderly run his fingers through so many times.

 

In the end, there had been none left. Jon knew that he should feel remorse about Ollie’s corpse by now, but the bodies still brought no emotion for him. However, his eyes threatened to mist as he watched Ghost crawl over to himself, soaked with blood, and collapse into Jon’s lap as the dazed Lord Commander stroked Ghost’s ears for the final time. 

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Loras hesitantly pushed open the wooden door, noting the ominous creaking that came from the hinges. The Lord Commander faced away from him, apparently staring into the huge fire that warmed the room. The youth that had accompanied him, a straw-haired boy almost as tall as Loras himself, announced his presence. “The Knight of Flowers.”

 

Loras knelt. “Lord Commander.” His heart pounded as his eyes searched the floor for answered. He wondered frantically what Snow wanted with him, and Loras sweated as he imagined the black-haired man simply running him through with a dagger.

 

“I’d almost forgotten Southern customs, forgive me. In the North we shake hands, so I’m more used to that. Stand, please! Care for some wine?” Jon poured a cup for both of them, and handed one to Loras. “It’s an honour to have the Knight of Flowers here at the Wall.”

 

“Thank you for having me. The truth is…” Loras steeled himself. “I’m here to take the black and help defend the wall.” Despite the fact that he was still becoming accustomed to drink again, Loras downed a large swallow of wine.

 

“Really? That surprises me. And why would a Southern knight, a Tyrell no less, want to give up his jousting and green gardens to lose fingers to frostbite here in the North?” Jon Snow gave him an piercing, level look.

 

Loras shifted uncomfortably, taking another sip of wine. “After I was found innocent of the...disgusting crimes that the Faith accused me of, I decided to come to a place where I could be of the most use. Queen Margaery suggested it to me, so that I could find purpose in my life.” The meaningless words were dry, but he choked them down with a sip of wine. “You see, I felt as if I had been...lacking purpose in my jousting and duties in the Kingsguard.” Another gulp of wine eased the hard knot in his throat.

 

The Lord Commander sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I think that we must abandon all pretense for this discussion to travel any farther. I received a letter from the Faith detailing the situation. From my knowledge, serving in the Night’s Watch is your punishment for acting against the will of the Seven. The Faith paints you as a sinning predator in this letter, and they recommend that I force you to sleep away from the other men.” Jon looked at Loras, who had gone paler than a Stark while he had been reading this, and folded up the letter. “I will start by reassuring you that I intend to treat you no differently than any other recruit. The story you just told me is what you will tell all the others. You will train and work hard, and if all goes well I will make you a ranger. However, I will not hear of any advances on your part. The Night’s Watch is sworn to celibacy, and that applies to you as well.” The Lord Commander turned and, in a sudden movement, threw the letter into the fire.

 

Loras Tyrell sat, completely stunned, for several minutes. Even then, he could only find one word to say. “Why?”

 

The Lord Commander paused. After a few seconds, he replied, “I do not believe in the Seven or their teachings. My adopted mother, Catelyn Stark, believed in them. But my father, Lord Stark, was raised in the North and followed the old gods. And therefore, so do I. The old gods of the North, you see, place no such artificial restraints on love.”

 

The Knight of Flowers bowed his head. “Thank you for this. I will not soon forget this gesture of kindness.” He stood, setting down his empty cup, and walked out the door. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

As Tyrell softly closed the creaky door behind him, Jon let out an inaudible sigh. He slowly sat down, running a hand through his hair. Jon hadn’t been prepared for how handsome he was, and how feminine he looked. Loras was so much different than Ygritte...no, it hurt to think about Ygritte. Mind wandering again, the Lord Commander strode over to the window that overlooked the training grounds.

 

A squelching, muddy courtyard framed by wooden walkways greeted his eyes. In the courtyard, new recruits slashed at each other awkwardly, while Frostfinger whipped them with insults. Even from the tower, Jon could hear the man’s degradations. “Pigheaded fools! You hold a sword with your thumb on the left side of the hilt! And you, Cliphead or whatever your name is, put your armour on properly! We’re all doomed if you lot of fools ever survives to become men of the Night’s Watch…” Frostfinger shook his head in apparent disappointment, then sharply gestured for the boys to start sparring again.

 

Despite everything, Jon cracked a smile at the sight of the relentless pessimist nipping at their heels. He sighed again, but this time it was a sigh releasing the tension that had built up over the course of his conversation with Loras. The face of the wildling that he had loved retreated to the back of his mind, and the Lord Commander was able to take a deep breath. 

Turning away from the window, Jon moved about the room calmly. It was, despite everything, still a forced calm. A deliberate calm. He stoked the fire himself, waving off Dupert’s protests about being his steward. After that, accompanied by a cup of wine, Jon proceeded to write a trivial letter that he had been putting off. It was simply a request to King’s Landing for more prisoners. Of course, it wouldn’t matter, just as it never had. Despite Queen Margaery’s kind and just rule, she did not fully understand the situation of the Night’s Watch. But then again, how could she? Jon knew a simple truth by now, having dealt with countless people that had never fought the wildlings, never stood atop the wall, never seen the chilling bright blue eyes of a walker. They didn’t understand the Wall’s true purpose, and therefore its true importance. The Queen was one of them, having grown up among green gardens and delicate flowers with the sun always shining its warmth overhead and a platter of fruit always nearby. Accordingly, an unfamiliarity with the North was one of her few failings.

 

Jon sighed, completing the letter with an insubstantial closing, and his hands moved mechanically to complete the task. Sign the letter. Light the candle. Melt the wax. Stamp the wax with the seal. Call for Dupert to take the envelope to the rookery. Replace the quill. Swallow the wine.

 

Then, all of the tension that had gradually been released in the Lord Commander’s chest coiled itself up again, squeezing his chest from the inside with what felt like the strength of a python. Jon Snow stared at the letter from the Faith for a long moment, fighting off the image of Loras Tyrell’s face. Then, with a sudden movement, he stood and threw the envelope into the fire. He watched the paper peel and the ink melt with a grim satisfaction, knowing that anyone at Castle Black could never use it.

 

When Dupert returned, Jon was staring at the last crumbly ashes of what had once been the written damnation of the Seven. The steward asked no questions, and the commander answered none.

 

\--------------------

 

Loras paused after reaching the base of the tower, uncertain as to where he should get set up. Luckily, an older man watching two boys practice fighting noticed his hesitation. “New recruit?” He turned to look at the senior, noting his thick salt-and-pepper beard and the gnarled staff on which he leaned.

 

“Yes, I was wondering where I could...start?” Loras shifted, suddenly wishing that he hadn’t chosen to wear a green shirt with the Tyrell family emblem on the right breast. The curly-haired youth wondered if he could shift the cloak that he wore to cover it, but quickly dismissed the idea. If the older man had seen it, there was nothing to do for it.

 

“Well, you’ll want to go to Frostfinger first. A wise word of warning, however…” The man leaned in and murmured, “Frostfinger doesn’t take kindly to any kind of insubordination, so watch your tongue closely. And he tends to go on a bit about, well, the futility of it all. Best keep your mouth shut and your ears open, the less you talk the more likely it is that he’ll take a shining to you.” 

 

Loras nodded for a moment, absorbing the information. Then, remembering his southern courtly manners, he asked, “Thank you for the warning, and for the kind greeting. What would be the name of a gentleman such as yourself?”

 

The greybeard snorted loudly, shaking his head. “You’re welcome, although you youngsters always need a bit of help. And my name’s Kuther. Drop the courtesy, though, as it’ll make a lad such as you seem like a prancing young princely fool. Good luck and warm watches to you...what did you say your name was?”

 

Loras tensed up for a long moment, debating whether he should tell Kuther his real name. However, a small reminder that many here would recognize him and expose his lie to Kuther quickly cut off that line of thought. “Loras.”

 

Kuther studied him for a long moment, eyeing him with a look that Loras knew all too well. “They say some things about the Knight of Flowers, rumours that reach even the Wall. The news of your arrest has been circulating around Westeros for some time, and most people pinpoint a certain reason when they tell the story.” The older man leaned more heavily on his staff. “Would those rumors about a young knight be true?”

 

Loras sighed, contemplating another lie, but he desisted. At this point, only honesty would do. “Yes, but why? Would you judge me for it?”

 

Kuther shook his head. “Your Seven would hold a man accountable for who he is, but I do not. I grew up north of the Wall, as one of the free folk. You would know that as a ‘wildling,’ I suppose. The point is, we do not judge people for whom they would take to bed. Man, woman, it makes little difference to us. I have had some fight beside me in battle who are like you. However, the Wall is perhaps not the best place for a man such as yourself. Be careful, or you might find yourself with a southerner’s knife stuck in your chest.” With that, Kuther started up the wooden stairs behind him.

 

Loras watched him go, his heart somehow lighter because he had found someone who didn’t hate him simply for what he was. Neither had Jon, which had also surprised him. For the first time, he understood acceptance. And it was a beautiful thing, for someone not to hate him simply because he had no interest in women. Heart buoyed, he strode over to the man directing the boys. “Frostfinger?”

 

The man turned, and Loras’s guess was confirmed by the fact that his left hand had three blackened stumps where fingers had once been. “New recuit, eh?” Loras opened his mouth, but Frostfinger continued. “Of course you are. You smell of green, your shirt is thin cotton, and the Tyrell emblem is stamped on everything you’re wearing. What does the noble Knight of Lilies want?” Frostfinger’s voice was edged with sharp sarcasm and it dripped with a weary, casual venom. 

 

“I just need to know where I can get supplies, new clothing, and a place to lodge.” Loras tried to keep his voice brittle and direct, void of any weakness that the grizzled mentor could detect.

 

The man sighed, but seemed to appreciate Loras’s directness. “Up the west stairs and take two lefts, you’ll find things there. As for where to stay, pick most any room. Most of the men take rooms in that building you see behind me. Come back when you’re done.” With that, he resumed his critique of the young men's fighting, gesturing angrily with both his unscarred hand and his blackened one.

 

Loras practically ran away from the grim figure, thinking that the master-at-arms would run him through with a practice sword if he hung around to watch. At the same time, he understood the former ranger’s pessimism. He imagined how Frostfinger would have struggled through the harsh snows north of the Wall, hand burning from the freezing temperatures, and wolves howling around him as he wondered every moment if an arrow would strike him in the next. The young knight shivered, drawing his thin cloak closer to himself, and started to climb a different set of stairs.

 

In the room that Frostfinger had mentioned, piles of clothing were stacked almost to the ceiling. Loras approached the nearest stack, fingering some of the cloth. He noticed that most of it was once colored differently, but had been crudely dyed black. He pulled a shirt and tunic loose, feeling the surprising softness and warmth of the fabric. Piling a fur-shouldered cloak on his stack of clothing, Loras turned toward the door. And stopped.

 

Leaning in the doorway was a huge young man, taller than even Loras and much bulkier. The young knight looked at him for a long moment, clearly expecting him to step aside, before saying in as polite of a tone as he could muster, “Could you move?”

 

“I don’t think so.” The other boy leaned in, his breath sour and laced with contempt. Loras watched as the other man picked at his fingernails. He continued, “So you’re the young knight, eh? A dashing fellow, they said. I almost can’t believe how wrong they were - instead I see a scrawny child who must wield a sword the size of a toothpick.”

 

Loras could already feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he stood his ground and said nothing, only eyed the other boy with a steely gaze. After a moment, his opponent continued, “But something must have attracted that fop Renly to you. I suppose your sword must have impressed him more than your sword. Care to let me see it?” He smiled smugly.

 

Despite the blood draining from his face, Loras responded with a brittle calmness. “Whatever rumors you have heard are false. My sister was married to him, and the two of them were a very happy couple together. It is true that Baratheon regarded me as a good friend, but it was never anything more than that.” Loras flicked a piece of lint from one of his new tunics, every ounce of energy focused on keeping his face smooth.

 

“Oh, really. And next you’ll be telling me that the Wall doesn’t exist and leaves aren’t green." A smirk. "Save your breath, it’s practically fact that you and that fake king were fucking like mad. I bet he made your sister watch while you shoved your cock into his asshole-”

 

Loras, pushed past the breaking point, slid a small knife out of his boot and pressed it to his throat. A single bead of blood dripped down from where the tip had just barely pierced the skin, and he held it steadily there. The Knight of Flowers’ eyes were on the other man’s every second, piercing them with stone cold murder. Loras spoke slowly, every word accompanied with a threatening jab. “I could kill you right now, you know, but I don’t think I will. Instead, I want you to know that if I ever hear you insult my family like that again, you will awake to the sight of your own flaying in the middle of the night. Watch your tongue.” With that, Loras slid the knife up to the man’s cheek. He pressed the blade in, watching the blood drip down. “And never insult my former king.” Loras moved past him into the hallway, feeling the other man’s enraged gaze on his back. The young knight’s heart burned with cold fury, with the ache of a lost love, with the hatred of years in a damp cell, and with the sound of a thousand blades being sharpened.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

Jon shivered, drawing his deep black cloak closer to him. The wind screamed past him, buffeting him with cold air and the scent of pine. His back was to a small, steadily burning brazier that crackled and spat with the life that kept him from succumbing to the icy gales. Beneath him, the Wall plummeted for hundreds of feet before meeting the frozen earth. He faced outward, eyes sharply raking the distant mountains for straggling figures wielding torches. Jon knew that a couple dozen feet to either side were two other men guarding just as he was, perhaps holding their hands to their own small fires or leaning close to the walls of the ice trenches to protect from the wind. 

 

He reflected, as most men did when standing sentry, that at least the wildlings had been allowed past. Queen Margaery had surprisingly granted them some land to the far west where they could make their home, sympathetic to their plight after Jon had sent a raven explaining the situation. But a chill brushed him just thinking about it as he remembered the true evil still out there, the evil that had caused an entire race of people to flee from the place that had been their home for thousands of years. It was an army of the dead, killed only by fire and the dragonglass knives that they had so few of, and the promise of death that marched alongside them. Shivering again, Jon cast the thought from his mind. It would do him no good to dwell on it.

 

His thoughts, of course, landed on Loras. Jon paused for a moment, then allowed himself to remember the young knight’s face. His eyes, clouded with the mental image, explored Loras’s face. Jon followed the line of his prominent, taut cheekbones over to his nose, which he remembered as narrow with an indignant upturn. His eyes were a bright blue, almost the color of the white walkers’. The Knight of Flowers’ hair was what Jon lingered on the most as he imagined running his fingers through it and feeling the feather-soft curls that were shockingly so much like his own. And his petulant lips were practically made for kissing…

 

Jon turned his head away to face the ice wall, focusing on the firelight dancing on its slick surface. He sternly checked himself, forcibly pushing away the thought of Loras Tyrell. Then, after a long moment, he sighed heavily. I go reminding Loras to be discreet, then I turn around and imagine things like this, he thought. Jon almost wanted to laugh at himself, but quickly suppressed the urge. Dupert would probably think he had finally cracked. The black-haired bastard turned to face the chill of the deep North again, and searched for something else to ponder.

 

Arya. Sansa. Bran. Rickon. Of course he would think about them. Jon sighed once more, closing his eyes momentarily, and reviewed the facts. Arya was thought to be dead, but somehow he knew that she was alive. The tough little girl was too resilient to have died in the slums of King’s Landing, especially with Needle at her side. No, Arya was probably hiding somewhere remote in Westeros, or maybe even Essos. Regardless, Jon knew that it would be a near-impossible task to find her. Sansa...she had escaped from her marriage to Ramsay Snow (the thought of it still made Jon’s teeth clench) but was also missing. Perhaps even dead. Bran...and Rickon...by this point it was only by sheer will that Jon resisted the tears that threatened to well up and roll down to freeze in his short beard. He knew that they had been killed by Theon. The traitor. Even after the Starks had raised him, had made him like one of their own, he was still willing to turn on them for a copper or whatever he had gotten. 

Jon realized that his fists were balled tightly, nails digging into his palm. He uncurled them, and let his arms fall to his sides. What had been done was done, and there was nothing that could be done to change it. He turned to face the fire behind him, and let all of his anger melt with the oblivious, merrily crackling flames.


	2. Allies and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loras receives instruction; Jon is counseled about the wildling issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back and writing after a wonderful sixth season, so enjoy! I'll be working on this chapter for a little while.

With a sharp series of slashes, the blade flickering like flame, Loras split the dummy open. Several feathers drifted out, spinning to the ground like the seeds he had seen on some rare trees found in one of Highgarden’s famed gardens. Rising from his whirlwind, the former knight pushed his mop of blond curls out of his eyes. Frostfinger met them with hostility, almost a loathing of sorts. But the grizzled ranger said nothing, strangely enough, only giving him a curt nod and moving down the line to bark at some of the farm boys who were tentatively jabbing the weapon they had been given. Loras sighed. This was a waste of time for him, and he knew that Frostfinger understood that.

 

They were clearly hoping to teach him something other than swordfighting, then. Probably patience. Loras pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying to escape the bitter cold that swirled around him and made his heart seem heavier with every passing day. He could still remember the lush green trees and grass of the south, its gentle breezes and soft sun. The North, he had already learned in just a few days, had none of the subtlety of the south. It was a scalpel, cold and heartless. Designed to pierce and draw blood, to stab and even kill. Harsh, brutal, with not an inch of pliance or tolerance. To disrespect it would be to die. He shivered again at the thought, and started passively slicing at the dummy again. 

 

Loras had come to enjoy the days in the training yard, even though most recruits did not. He liked several things about it: one, Frostfinger left him alone for the most part, and two, the rhythmic pounding of drill swords always managed to soothe and tame the inner pandemonium that threatened to engulf him on some days. A session spent whacking at sticks left the young man peaceful, just for a minute or two, but it was enough. He hadn’t felt peace since Renly...his king, his angel, his lover. Every night, the nightmares came again. Despite the years since it had happened. A shadow, appearing with a knife. Leaving Loras’s dreams, every night, with blood on its blade. Renly’s blood.

 

“Watch it! You’ve shredded that poor thing enough.” A voice cut through the maze in his head, and Loras was transported back to the present. He had indeed mutilated his practice opponent, which was covered with dozens of cuts and slashes. The ‘head’ of it hung by a thread. The Tyrell looked for the source of the voice, turning his head to the left. The recruit practicing next to him was staring at the golden-haired man with a hard expression, his eyes giving the former knight a dark glare. “Thanks,” Loras replied. He hesitated, wondering if the other trainee would make a good ally here at the Wall. A risk that he would unfortunately have to take. “What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around before.”

 

“Odel. I arrived here three days ago.” The statement coming from the dark brown-haired figure was curt and factual. “You’re Loras Tyrell.” It was not a question, and the other man clearly expected nor needed a reply. Swiveling smoothly to face his post, Odel struck at it several times. Loras noted, watching his movements, that he was a trained fighter. From Essos, the knight guessed, based on his foot stance and the way the held his sword. Most Westerosi warriors held their sword with the thumb near the blade and their feet planted to give them a solid stance and help them hold their ground. Odel, however, moved around the dummy lightly using only the balls of his feet. Darting movements that would make him difficult to hit. His sword grip was slightly different too, fingers splayed and thumb tucked behind the middle finger of his right hand. That combined with a darker skin tone than Loras confirmed his guess.

 

Returning to his dummy, Loras started halfheartedly prodding it with the tip of his wooden training sword. “So how did you end up at a place like this?” he asked cautiously.

 

Odel moved to the back of the dummy and stabbed it through, making it look as easy as slicing butter. “I was born in Meereen, as a Wise Master’s son, and didn’t take to it very well once I grew up a bit. So I came to King’s Landing, rented out my services as a fighter, and got sent to the Wall for killing some noble.” His explanation was delivered with no emotion in his face as he flowed around his target and occasionally jabbed his sword into the sack.

It struck Loras that this man didn’t need training either, and he wondered why it had taken so long for him to notice that fact. “Why are you here in training? You’re an excellent swordsman.”

 

Odel laughed, and executed a flourishing sweep that snapped the pole in half. “I’m here to teach you, so shall we get started?” Without waiting for a reply, he stepped over to Loras. “I’ve heard that you’re an impatient, talented brat that thinks much too highly of himself.”

 

Icy blue eyes turned to the Meereenese, and Loras’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I used to be, but not anymore. Are you going to rant about my strength of character, or can we begin?”

 

The dark-skinned man laughed and doubled over, placing his hands against Loras’s leg and giving a few pushes so that it was bent more. “You tend to lock your knees when you fight, which looks fancy and proper but isn’t smart at all. Crouch a little to improve balance.” Odel made several small adjustments, discussing each one and moving Loras’s limbs to demonstrate.

 

“Now try it,” he instructed the former Tyrell. Lunging forward, Loras thrust the point of his sword into the practice sack and was pleasantly surprised when it held the same weight as Odel’s seemingly effortless swordwork. “Why me?” he asked Odel.

 

He shrugged. “You can hold a sword, first. Second, you have been wronged, and I have sympathy for you. But third and greatest is the fact that the Lord Commander asked me to. Now, I must meet with the other rangers to discuss the wildlings.”

 

\-------------------

 

Jon sighed. “The wildlings have settled in their land for now, but the Boltons aren’t happy about that situation one bit. If we do nothing, I would guess they’ll be driven out within the year unless they’re much fiercer than we’ve thought.” He picked up a black-clad figure and moved it to rest beside the bearded tokens, then moved it back. “However, doing so will leave the Wall mostly defenseless and there’s no guarantee our several hundred men will make any difference. Of course, doing so also breaks our vows.”

 

“What about the crown?” another man asked, picking up a Lannister figure. “They could give us permission or aid.”

 

The Lord Commander fought back a hiss of irritation. “The Boltons serve the Lannisters, so they have similar interests, and the Starks would have supported us but they’ve scattered and lost their power. We can rally the northern houses if we choose to help them, but they won’t provide that many men. So I turn to your counsel - especially Ser Davos and Eddison. What do you say?” His eyes flicked anxiously between them, purple flashes visible in the low candlelight.

 

Dolorous Edd frowned, staring at the board, and exhaled slowly. “We can’t. I’m sorry, Jon, I want to help them more than anything, but we could only muster seven hundred fighting men and they won’t make a difference as you said yourself. We can give them advance warning and maybe even hide some of them in Mole’s Town or something, but the numbers don’t add up. I truly am sorry, but that’s my advice.”

 

Jon nodded, not liking the words but hearing the truth in them. “Ser Davos?”

 

The gruff knight admitted, “I don’t know much of the wildling’s fighting power, that’s the truth, but I have to agree with Tollett. The smart path might be the right thing to do, seeing as we could at least save some of them. But I do know that they’re a proud folk, so they might not accept our help.”

 

The Lord Commander bowed his head. “As much as I hate to admit it, both of you speak truly. We’ll help them how we can.”

 

After the others left the room, Edd giving him a pat on the shoulder and Odel informing him of Loras's improvements, Jon whispered to himself, “Please don’t let this have all been for nothing, the ones who died so others could live. Ghost. Pyp. Grenn. I’ll make sure your sacrifices weren’t in vain.”

 

\------------------------

More coming soon!


End file.
